


Every Move Is Wrong

by Whizzer_going_down_to_Florida



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: F/F, F/M, King!Whizzer, M/M, Mendel is a peasant, Non-specific country, Renaissance-ish time period, Royal Guard!Marvin, Royalty AU, Trina is a maid, royal au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 02:18:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17654159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whizzer_going_down_to_Florida/pseuds/Whizzer_going_down_to_Florida
Summary: Whizzer is a young king. He struggles with the new title and the lack of trust from his citizens.Things take a turn when the head of the royal guards catches his eye.(A promise that this fic is better than that description)





	Every Move Is Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> Just a heads up, I will try to update as much as I am able, but occasionally I have problems with mental health and that tends to monopolize most of my throughts and makes it difficult to become motivated. I really like this idea and don’t want to let y’all down so I’ll try my damn best to stick to a schedule.

Whizzer felt like he had had the wind knocked out of him and still wasn’t able to catch his breath. He faces the crowd of people standing in front and around him. Some were local, and some were from kingdoms he had never even heard of (not that he was very aware of anything that existed outside of the castle walls.) Whoever they were, they came to represent their kingdom and present a simple message, “We’re counting on you.” 

 

Whizzer was young, only 24, and was now given the responsibility and liability of keeping the people of  _ his _ kingdom happy and  _ alive.  _ He was armed with only the knowledge that was shoved at him merely the night before and a smile that he hoped would win over the masses. 

 

Now, he was forcing his legs to continue walking down the aisle to a throne that once belonged to his, now late, father. His mother’s had already been removed from the hall. The place was not one for grieving. They were killed during a so-called “diplomatic” meeting that quickly turned into an ambush. 

 

I guess you could say that diplomacy is dead and so were his parents.

 

He didn’t mourn. There was no time. He was told the sad new then quickly introduced to a few old men who he was informed were his advisors and shoved out into the public eye. 

 

Even if there was time. Even if he was given a chance to breathe and contemplate everything that had happened, his reaction wouldn’t quite be “mourning.” He might shed a tear or two, but they were never there before so their sudden absence was not so jarring. He wasn’t sad, he felt empty (which was usual) maybe even a little bit angry. I guess you could call him jaded.

 

He sat on the throne that seemed so much smaller than it had been when he was a toddler and his father hugged him and placed him on his knee, which was, coincidentally, the last time either of his parents ever hugged him again. 

 

His father's crown was slowly placed along his head, awkwardly pinning the hair that fell in front of his face against his forehead, and the crowd erupted into applause. He couldn’t hear them, just see them. He could see the clapping hands, but he could also see the indifferent faces and the weary eyes. He saw the guards standing in a line down the aisle in front him. He examined each one, looking for any signs of disinterest or distraction. He saw someone who he assumed was the head of the royal guard, judging by the gold sash that swept across the front of the normal red uniform. He saw the piercing blue eyes that belonged to the man that seemed to be pointed right at him. He tried to look away. It’s not like being stared at was something foreign to him, but it was the intensity of his gaze that caught him off guard. 

 

His mind was yanked back into reality as he heard the words “Your Majesty, King Brown.” It sent chills down his spine, but not pleasantly. 

 

He gave the speech that was prepared by someone he couldn’t remember the name of but was essentially in charge of saving his ass. 

 

He went to the ball that was held afterward. It was dry and slow and everyone that Whizzer hated but that a king should want. Woman from all over the world came to dance with him. He showered in praise and affection.

 

His least favorite part was the presentation of the suitors. The most beautiful woman from every allied kingdom stood before him. Cookie cutter hair and dresses, and no piercing blue eyes. He sent them away immediately, an order that did not help his popularity. “A king needs a wife to stand by his side and help serve.” His mom would tell him repeatedly. And he would respond with “I don’t want a woman to just stand by my side and look pretty.” A deliberate jab at his mother but not far from the truth. 

 

He would delay choosing a bride as long as he could, but the clock was beginning to tick. The girls, however, were the least of his problems. His priorities were crumbling alliances, a peasant uprising, and blue eyes. In no particular order. To play the part he was supposed to, he would occasionally tap a random maiden on the back and dance emotionlessly with the music before leaving her back where she started. 

 

He was only allowed to barricade himself in his room well into the early hours of the next day. While scrambling back to his hiding place, he saw the new guard standing next to the door, the one from the coronation. He almost said something. He almost confronted him but he decided to just ignore him as well as he could and finally get some peace and quiet. 

 

He could shut off the rest of the castle, but he couldn’t silence the voices in his head.

  
  



End file.
